


Who is Pitch...?

by Caelyn



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Deathfic, Emotional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:29:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caelyn/pseuds/Caelyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hold on Pitch! Just a little longer the others are coming… just hang on a little longer….please…” </p>
<p>The last of the words broke apart and became rough. The boy really did have a nice voice; he probably was a pleasure to listen to when singing. The hands flatten out and slip against his ripped skin.</p>
<p>The boy was getting so dirty because of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who is Pitch...?

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING check the tags!!! Seriously I am the worst kind of person. 
> 
> This was an idea I had for a comic I will draw out someday, but today is not that day....so I wrote it out instead. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.

There is a hissing…. fizzling sound that permeates the air. It is reminiscent of the sound falling rain makes when plunging into an open fire.

 

…and it smells like burning skin.

 

The roar of it fills his ears and is so loud that there doesn’t seem to be anything else. He feels as if he has been hollowed out somehow… as if some part of him had been drained away.

 

“…Pitch?…Oh my god….Pitch!”

 

**_Pitch_ ** _…?_

_Who is… Pitch…?_

 

The voice that had called out the strange name is close by and sounds very shaken and upset. It’s a younger voice he guesses, a boy’s voice. He tries to turn around to see, but when he does he realizes how _badly_ he hurts and how the hurt is _everywhere_. From where his hands rest on the floor at his sides, he can feel them wet and half submerged in the heat that is steadily leaving his body.

 

Pale, quaking hands clench at his chest, fingers pressing in and arms desperately squeezing as if they could put him back together again. He had only just noticed the hands being there.

 

They must have been there the whole time.

 

He was being carefully held from behind. He guessed by the owner of the young voice he had heard earlier, propped up and half lying on top of the smaller person. Cold was seeping into his mangled back and his torn torso from where the boy touched him. It soothed some of the hurt away and he wished he could thank the boy for this, but his words kept running together in ugly, wet grumbles and moans.

 

“Hold on Pitch! Just a little longer the others are coming… just hang on a little longer…. _please_ …”

 

The last of the words broke apart and became rough. The boy really did have a nice voice; he probably was a pleasure to listen to when singing. The hands flatten out and slip against his ripped skin.

 

The boy was getting so dirty because of him.

 

His eyes were getting heavier and his body was thankfully going numb to the horrific pain, mind letting go and adrift in a lovely fog.

 

_I’m sorry ….Seraphina….but I’m just so… tired…._

 

“HELP!! GOD SOMEONE HELP!!”

 

The yelling did very little to bring him back to full awareness.  Nor did the shifting of his body rouse him. Suddenly there was a face in his swimming, red line of vision that he could slot together with the soothing cold and the beautiful voice.

 

He had been right that the speaker was young.

 

The young man was ethereal in appearance with snowy skin and brilliant blue eyes. Fat tears spilled down the boy’s smooth cheeks and slid over trembling lips. The tears continued to run and splash onto his own cracked skin. They were impossibly cold and heart breaking.

 

_Always hated to see a child cry._

 

The boy’s face blurred away to a familiar plumper one.

 

_Don’t cry Seraphina….please don’t cry…._

 

The face before him now was painted in soft peaches and rosy pinks. Long feather soft hair tickled the sides of his face and his daughter smiled sadly down at him.

_‘Daddy…just a little longer…’_

_'I'm so tired...Seraphina'_

 

“Pitch!! Common now! Stay with me!! Pitch!?’

 

_‘It’s ok daddy, just close your eyes.’_

 

The face of his child melted away to form the boy from before. The youth moved around him, out of view once more. He was gingerly lifted back up and again, cradled from behind. It felt so much better than laying on the hard ground. His dead weight supported entirely by the slight trembling body, arms wrapping back around him.

 

_'Seraphina there's a boy here with me....I think you would like him...he seems very strong...very kind..._

                                                                                                                        

“Please….Pitch….”

 

The boy presses his face into the back of his bleeding neck and begins sobbing.

 

He tries to tell the boy his name was not ‘ _Pitch’,_ but Kozmotis and that everything will finally be all right. He struggles to say anything at all, to thank the child for _caring_ , for keeping him from being alone. He had been so afraid that at the end of it all he would be alone like he had been before, blind in the darkness. He wants to ask the boy _his_ name and tell him how grateful he was, but the world around him weakens….

 

…. and it slips through his fingers for the last time.

 

The arms around him shrink down, but not away. Small plump fingers dance along his armored chest. There is no more hurt. His sight is filled with a bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds that stretch out lazily in the sunlight high above him. The air smells like damp honeyed earth. The breeze that carries it glides past him and sweeps warm and breathy though his hair and into the long grass around them.

 

_'I'm so sorry Seraphina...I should have never left.'_

 

In the far away distance Kozmotis thinks he hears an agonized scream, but his daughter giggles and the sound is lost and forgotten.

 

_'It's ok daddy.'_

 

Kozmotis smiles and watches as dozens of golden butterflies dance and spin around them. He recalls what it is to feel happy again.

 

_‘You’re home now.’_

 

 


End file.
